Aftermath
by quattuorViginti
Summary: "Each bag was large enough to hold an entire adult male. If he examined them more closely, all of the bags had a decaying stench more unique than the previous one. Maybe Hannibal could still smell it on him. He smiled . . . 'My name is Will Graham.'" [HanniGraham (HannibalXWill)] This story occurs after the events of Hannibal's arrest and Red Dragon.
1. Prologue: Side Effects

Last night, he dreamed. He dreamed like any other man, stable or unstable. He abandoned concepts of good and evil for behaviorism and can't fathom the difference anymore. Was there one in the first place? Maybe there was a difference a long time ago, five years ago to be precise.

He dreamed that he was at a beach on the edge of a river.

The river was isolated, but the people that lived there left their marks. In some spots, they left a beach towel. The sand covered their bags in a thick layer of sand that buried their possessions and memory. In others, there were pools of blood in various patterns that pointed to their violent deaths. Often, the trail of rust was longer around objects whose owners endured more brutal tragedies than others. All of it was dry.

All of it was dry for a _very_ long time.

As he investigated his surroundings, he noticed that the sand induced a slight pain beneath his feet with every step. Any contact on his foot burned a little more than it previously did. He looked down at the source of his pain and realized that the beads of sand thickened. The particles merged together and heated under the skin of his foot. He left behind a path of glass.

He continued to move forward.

The caress of the ocean curling between his toes relieved any discomfort from the glass. It was almost as if a dozen pairs of hands were curling around his feet, luring him in with this brief pleasure.

He followed the touch and the comforting motion of fingertips along his damaged skin. He did not examine his surroundings or the rising levels of water. Instead, he blindly followed where these hands were leading him. The gentle touch was vaguely familiar and, oddly enough, soothing to him.

His feet were cold.

He opened his eyes. He was in the middle of a familiar river that had the same greenery. Clearly, nothing changed from his last visit. The forest was still as thick and prominent as before. Furthermore, the bushes around the edge of the water didn't loose their bright coloring, which was a clear indication of their health. On the edge of the river, the clear water brushed against the large rocks that eroded to perfection.

In the water, he saw objects that held different values. Some were shiny trinkets, like an award for some sort of good deed. Others were dull and ranged from common arcade prizes to pieces of candy. He remembered many of these things but forgot about many others. Each of the objects in the river played a part in some of his old memories. Almost all of them lost their value.

One particular object, though, did not loose its value. A set of fishing lures gently floated next to old fishing rode discarded a long time ago. The rod was not damaged from its last use. If anything, it appeared renewed. The only difference was the crimson tint that was permanently embedded on the sharp end of the hook.

He reached out and grabbed the rod.

All at once, the objects began to transform. Each one slowly assembled to form a different corpse of a serial killer that had a significant impact on him during his investigations. Beneath his feet, he noticed that he was standing on top of Garret Jacob Hobbs's body.

No, they were not corpses.

Suddenly, a collection of bubbles flooded the surface as each man rose from the water. They were all speaking and breathing, alive. Many of them talked about different things, but some spoke in unison. Underneath the chorus of their voices, he heard their mocking chant. Their words became their base that drove the underlying tempo of the song.

"Save Will Graham."

In the middle, he saw one particular killer that was directing the band of speakers and illustrating the entire performance. The beast's knife was its baton. He tried to move forward and confront the creature only to discover that a large group of bodies blocked his path. The dead men and women that cluttered the surface of the water all had similar features to the photos of victims that he recalled examining for many sleepless nights to search for traces.

The _thing_ that he pursued was a black creature that produced an unholy stench. It's antlers stretched towards the heavens, corrupting even the purest of angels. Most of the bodies in the river belonged to this monster, and there were enough of them to cover the water's surface as far as the horizon.

He held firmly in place by the clutter and trapped in his own design. He was just another body. He was another victim in the creature's gruesome picture and forced to listen to its horrid song. He listened to the chorus of rough voices that began to overwhelm his senses. Soon, the voices of the victims joined in their murderers' twisted song. He anticipated the monster's next action and tightened his grip around the fishing rod until his knuckles turned white from the pressure.

As the creature made its way towards him, the bodies beneath it parted with each step. The monster stepped towards the corpses, which instantly transformed them into mutations. Each one matched their crime scene photos. After these bodies floated into the proximity of the beast, each corpse acquired a different look. Each body blossomed into a piece of mangled artwork as original as the previous one. The creature didn't come into contact with the corpses. It didn't need to. It engraved his baton into their feeble flesh long ago.

Within seconds, the beast was centimeters away from him. He examined the creature's charred skin that darkened into a malevolent void. They breathed the same air and reflected the same face in their eyes. When he looked into them, he saw that Wendigo in their reflection.

**He saw himself.**

He snapped awake and glanced at his surroundings that were blurring a little from the lingering haze of his dream. He realized that he fell asleep on his small boat that drifted aimlessly in the middle of the ocean.

He didn't remember the finer details of his last conversation with Dr. Lecter. The former psychiatrist's final attempt to contact him, a single letter, was lost in the remnants of the decades. Years ago that thin parchment was eroded away _in this same spot_ by the gentle foam of rolling waves that brushed against the sailboat. Years ago, those crumpled words rapidly dissolved into the remnants of these past several years. Nevertheless, Hannibal's touch lingered on this particular family man in Sugarloaf Key, Florida. Dr. Lecter didn't need the printed word to extend his influence.

He looked around only to see an irregular amount of trash bags, an unusual addition for any boat to have at this time of night. Each bag was large enough to hold an entire adult male. If he examined them more closely, all of the bags had a decaying stench more unique than the previous one.

Maybe Hannibal could still smell it on him.

He smiled.

"It's 3:01 A.M. I'm in Sugarloaf Key, Florida. My name is Will Graham."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm sure you would like an introduction, an idea of what's to come and what this story entails. I am not going to give you any of that. Instead, for every chapter, I am going to give you a paradox along with a small list of announcements, which will be listed under this section. _This story will update every Friday unless something comes up._ I'm usually very punctual, though, so there shouldn't be anything to worry about. Furthermore,_ if you have any questions about the story or helpful criticism, feel free to leave it in the review. _Keep in mind, though, that this is my story. I reserve the right to disagree with any advice that you give me, but I will acknowledge your comments.

**Disclaimer: **Hannibal is a book, a movie, and a television series with many names and faces that contribute to it. I am not any of those names or faces.

**Today's Paradox: **You have never _actually seen_ your own face, only a reflection of it.


	2. Chapter 1: Past Behavior

_**4 Hours and 19 Minutes Earlier**_

**Sugarloaf Keys, Florida:**

The wood creaks softly under the pressure of moving footsteps. These are the feet of a hurried man who is far too preoccupied with his late night activities to enjoy the cool breeze of the evening air that follows the day's humidity. The man skillfully maneuvers through the darkness. In his mind, the surroundings look as bright, vibrant, and detailed as they are during the day.

Regardless, there is no light. Any illumination only provides reminders that contrast with the man's overactive imagination. The furniture is coated in a thin layer of dust and remains disorderly out of the furniture's excess rather than his laziness. Clearly, this house is far too spacious for a single man to live in.

Perhaps a family lived in this house with him at one point.

A light at the edge of the darkness causes the vibrant memory to crumble. The surrounding darkness contrasts too much with the man's brighter memories. He quickly passes an alarm clock that distinctly glows "10:42 P.M." in a familiar, crimson text. He moves towards the source of illumination at the end of the hall.

Will Graham's light at the end of the tunnel, though, isn't a haven. A safe is visibly perched on the highest shelf of the lit closet just above a variety of coats that are suspended on thin, wiry hangers. His fingers briefly graze over the knob of the strongbox before entering the combination with practiced ease.

There was a small handgun inside the safe.

He draws the weapon out of its confinement quickly and haphazardly leaves the safe open with little regard for the few remaining trinkets inside. Will does not hesitate to slip a few bullets that are hidden in a separate dresser drawer next to the closet before he silently departs through the back door of his home to avoid waking up his dogs.

He does not intend to take a boat this evening to his destination with potential evidence inside. After closely observing the water, though, he concludes that tonight's current is perfect for disposing the trash bags that are scattered inside the interior of his ship.

Usually, he meets the men and, on the rare occasion, women who come into contact with him at a remote location after luring them into a meeting. The meeting point is carefully designated a few hours away from their home and, possibly, an even greater distance from his target.

Anonymous articles are a wonderful medium for coming into contact with these specific people. Each one searches for something in a newspaper advertisement. While some search for love, others search for some form of acceptance or the occasional _partnership_. Nevertheless, Each person that constantly corresponds with him has one specific trait in common.

They all claimed that they participated in the confirmed murder of _at least_ two people.

He doesn't have to drive to the location this evening. Instead, he walks across the pavement at the dead of night for a full thirty minutes to the local shopping district. The meeting place is dangerously close to his home. Furthermore, these local businesses are closed for the night. The shops revel in the darkness with the dim, blinking lights of the security cameras that illuminate this gloomy hour.

Will skillfully avoids the recording devices in the parking lot with a practiced ease. He has a obvious familiarity with the area. He is not foolish and, clearly, the man that he plans to confront this evening isn't either.

He didn't recall a typed conversation where the man he sought was ever imprudent.

Will scrutinizes the man carefully. He obviously has a reliable source to pick such a close location to his home. Luckily, a separate P.O. box from the city for exchanges with the press only gives a _general_ estimation of his location rather than a specific area. The murderer also chooses a location with cameras, which indicates that he fully intends to take some precaution around a stranger. Will notes that the man takes significantly less safety measures than he normally does to maintain the privacy of their conversation.

This murderer is comfortable around Will Graham.

He arrives at the meeting point before the serial killer does. The man is most likely nearby, carefully analyzing Will from a distance. The former special agent slides his hands into his pockets and hopes for an opportunity to muffle the sound of gun's safety when he switches it off. An opportunity does not come. He continues to wait.

He produces a single, obnoxious cough and lazily wipes his mouth with his left hand.

He switched the safety off the gun with his right.

After a few more minutes of waiting, a man steps into the corner of Will's vision. The killer has the appearance of the average male and wears a suit that is not unusual for anyone in the working class to wear. He looks like any other professional man, and **he's armed.**

"Graham, huh? I brought something to celebrate the meetin'. Hope you don't mind," The murderer murmurs before he briefly makes a motion to his car with the gun in his hand. The vehicle is parked in the darkest part of the alley behind the building to isolate his transportation from any unwanted attention under the street lamps. Occasionally, the trunk produces a loud thump and follows with muffled curses of frustration. The man turns around to open the trunk and-

**Bang!**

Will listens to the unfortunate victim's shriek at the sudden commotion in the trunk and watches the kidnapper collapse on the hood with a soft thud. Before Will tucks the gun away and approaches the murderer, he fires a few time at a nearby security camera until the recording light goes out. He also sets off the alarms in the store. Quickly, he walks over and knocks the struggling killer unconscious with a fierce blow to the back of the head. Will yanks the keys from the dying man's pocket and uses the car to inflict significant damage on a nearby fire hydrant. He assures that the trunk is conveniently placed underneath the thin plume of water to wash off the murderer's blood. Will quickly yanks the unconscious body over his shoulder and removes the murderer's jacket to tie the fabric over the bullet wound and prevent the blood from dripping on the pavement.

He had no intention to leave any evidence behind.

When the police arrive to investigate the alarms, they will rescue the victim desperately pounding on the trunk. The victim will be too preoccupied with their escape attempts to remember the exchange between the former special agent and the murderer.

Will drags the man home for thirty minutes and carefully avoids the headlights of any passing cars before tossing the wounded man onto the plastic-covered floor of his garage. The murderer only twitches slightly in his comatose from the rough impact.

Will starts to rip the man apart piece by piece. Peeling off the thick layers of skin took a great amount of time and effort, but he manages to remove most of the skin in approximately two hours. Eventually, he stuffs the corpse inside a trash bag one tendon at a time. He continues to tear apart specific portions of the body with his bare hands for the following hour before slipping the peeled off skin inside the trash bag. He wisely tucks the first bag inside two more garbage bags to prevent the mess from leaking any fluids before loading it onto his boat.

As the boat drifts over the water once again, Will's fingers carefully graze over the surgical scar visibly embedded on his face in the reflection of his boat's windows. Will is lucky to speak after nearly loosing his speech from that stab wound. Briefly, Will muses that the facial reconstruction after Dolarhyde's attack takes a lot of time. After the "Tooth Fairy" case in 1978, many people cringe at the sight of him. Despite it's horrid appearance, the scar is a symbol of his final metamorphosis.

A few serial killers attempted to contact him like the murderer in the "Tooth Fairy" case. Some tried to finish what Hannibal Lecter and Francis Dolarhyde by luring Will into a false sense of security before lashing out at him. In response, Will mangled each one that deliberately interfered with him. Nevertheless, these attacks were not reported to the police. When Will was a special agent assigned to apprehend the Chesapeake Ripper, he mutilated an attacker with his bare hands under the scrutiny of the FBI. If he reported the assaults, his arrest was guaranteed. Instead, he learned to clean up the mess that they left behind. Molly left him soon as she discovered that Will was _fishing_ for these people after the first few incidents and filed for a divorce. He didn't stop her even when she took his only son, Willy.

**Will Graham was dangerous.**

Instead, he wades into the quiet of the stream and takes these corpses with him.

* * *

_**2:48 A.M.**_

**Sugarloaf Keys, Florida:**

Hannibal Lecter carefully examined Will Graham's home with interest. He never quite had the opportunity to visit his home before. Briefly, he examined the thin layer of dust accumulating on his furniture with a brief note disappointment. There was no sign of Will's lovely wife. Dr. Lecter conceded, though, that Will was horribly rude at times.

Unfortunately, there is no sign of Will Graham except for the lovely mess in his garage and his dogs. Will clearly put a lot of effort in the man's brutal paring. It's a shame that the dogs have to clean up this piece of work.

Regardless of the beautiful sight that Will left to welcome the former psychiatrist, he thought the circumstances were less than ideal. He didn't _convince _his transportation to sail to Florida from the Bahamas for nothing, after all.

**He fully intends to have an old friend for dinner tonight.**

* * *

**Author's Note: **I apologize for not updating last week. As some of you know **now**, I had to deal with personal matters that involved threats of suicide from close family members. Rest assured, though, that _we resolved the matter and found proper support for these __individuals_. Yes, I am using the plural term "individuals". I decided to add a little more to the story than intended for this week to make up for last week's absence.

_If an update does not happen as planned, check my profile for details on the matter_. I usually post reasons for any unexpected delays under the "Story Progress" section and, sometimes, the _exact time_ that I update a chapter.

**Today's Paradox: **"It's opposite day today." Today must be a normal day. After all, the opposite of an "opposite day" is a _normal_ day.


End file.
